


Comforts For Rainy Days

by Aithilin



Series: Festive Food Fluffs [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Comfort Food, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 18:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14170605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Noct could get used to waking up to Nyx’s cooking.





	Comforts For Rainy Days

The rain in the city was a very different affair than outside of the Wall, or on a distant island Noctis had only dreamed of going to. The rain in Insomnia was hesitant when it first fell, held on the Wall until the magic gave way to the natural and the deluge began. The rains spread out across the city in pieces, where commuters would need district specific weather reports to plan their day— to know if the umbrella they needed to leave home with would be useless in the district where they worked, or if the wind that whipped through the streets now, the remnants of winter on its heels, would be bringing the promise of blossoms and warmth a few streets away. 

For most Lucians, the first rains of spring were always a hassle. An annoyance to prepare for, to plan around and try to adapt as best they could while they waited for the tumultuous weather to give way to something more stable. The dreary grey and damp of the rain washed streets a grim reminder that the seasons were not steadied by the Wall and the King’s magic. That the steady tread of time was not impeded just because some of them wanted a sunny day across the vast city. 

“It’s good luck,” Nyx said one morning, when the rains were battering against his building and the water running down his windows like a river. Noct could watch the steady drip and drop of the rain into the ever-bright streets below for hours. “The first rains— the real rain, none of that sleet crap this place gets halfway through the season— is a sign for a good harvest. Something to celebrate.”

“A flood is a sign of a good harvest?”

“Don’t get smart, little star,” Nyx was smiling as he worked the dough on his small counters, the flour he had used to roll out the dough, already staining his loose sleeping pants with white flecks as he worked. The flour clinging to his hands and arms as much as the stew-like sauces he had started before Noct had even woken. “It doesn't always flood.”

The scrape of the spoon against the skillet had woken Noct briefly, earlier, when the light outside as still trying to force its way through the rain. The clatter if bowls and pans lost in the calming rhythm of the rain against the window above him, as Nyx checked on the colour of potatoes and roots and the thickness of the gravy. The subtle touch of rosemary and thyme and black pepper curled through the steam and sizzling air around the kitchen, where Nyx dusted dough with flour and re-rolled the whole thing until he was satisfied with the consistency and thickness of the dough. Until he was shrouded by the welcoming scent of his cooking.

There were already flood warnings and train delays scrolling across the news Nyx had his television tuned to. The steady promise of updates for the water-logged districts a constant feed between legitimate news and the gossip that infiltrated everything else. The warnings of rain delays, flooded tunnels from the bay-side lines, from the lower levels of the city, mixed with promise of snow in the more northern stretches of the kingdom’s Crown City. And Noct was reminded of just how dull the weather was in the more temperate royal heart where the Citadel stood. 

“What do you call this, then?”

Nyx glanced out the window, smiling at the steady beat of the rain. He turned his attention back to the skillet he had started, where the dark meats of some cheap cut of steaks— the unused portions from their dinner the night before— sizzled with what few light vegetables Nyx knew that Noct would willingly stomach. He had cut and softened as much as he could before they were added, the bland starch of root vegetables soaked through with the sauce and juice of the meats. The gravy thickening beyond the light sauce that it had been the day before, when only a touch was needed to bring out the rich meats Nyx had selected before. 

The chill of the dreary air outside barely held at bay by the heavy stew and the welcome warmth infusing the air of the small apartment.

“I’d call it a nice drizzle.”

“A drizzle, right.”

From the little window above the bed, Noct could see the street. He could see the way the water ran in shallow streams towards the drains. Where it caught in the nooks and crannies and dips in the streets and balconies, or pooled in the canvas awnings above shop doorways. He could watch— the scene blurred by the water on the window itself— as the children of the district played in the rain. He could hear the splashing and laughter and the surprise when those awnings gave way to the weight of the water that had gathered. He could see the shining reflection of the signs and hear the cheerful greetings outside in the chaos. 

He knew that, if this weather had reached his own apartment on the other side of the city, the mood would be far less cheerful. The severity of the greys and damp, reflecting the neon brights of the signs, would hardly draw people out into the street. He knew that the traffic would leave the streets a mess, that the fountains would be avoided for fear of splashes and excess runoff into the commuters. That the shimmer of the Wall against the fluffy, dark clouds, would be missed by the Lucians who viewed the weather as an inconvenience to their daily life. 

He knew that— if he had woken up in his own bed, in his own apartment— that he would not have been in such a good mood. That he would have slept longer, and turned on the lights to ward off the stagnant grey of the city. That he would have been snappish and resistant to the rhythmic beat of the rain against concrete and on,y looking towards the freshness of the air after the storm had moved on.

“What are you even cooking this early?”

“We need to work on your definition of ‘early’.”

“Why? What time is it?”

The wolfish grin was unmistakable as Nyx turned to stirring the stew that was slowly coming together, that was hanging in the warmth and air around them in the small room Nyx called home. “Noon, kitten.”

“It is not.”

“Did I tire you out that much?”

“Shut up. I need to text Iggy about where I am.”

“Already done. Several hours ago.” The dough Nyx had been rolling out was set over the skillet and stew, hiding whatever few splashes of colour Noct could use as an excuse not to eat the concoction as he stretched and approached the small kitchen. “I told him that I'd feed you.”

“How noble,” the whole thing went into the oven, the lingering scent of heady gravy spiked with the rosemary from last night’s dinner going with it. The air of the apartment heavy and warm, the hints of a lazy day and the promise of an easy afternoon swept together with the pattering rain against the windows. “What are you feeding me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“It looked like a pot pie.”

“Surprise?”

“You're a dork, hero.”

Noct laughed as Nyx grabbed him, as specks of flour were smeared across his arms and waist by the Glaive’s hug. As lips were pressed against his neck and Nyx nipped at the lovebites from earlier. As the day and warmth wrapped around them and the promise of a good season and a comforting home poured through the streets with the water. And the beat of the rain joined with the festive music of the shops and restaurants opening out to the streets, where the immigrants that had built new homes there laughed and mimicked the heartbeat of the city itself in their ease and acceptance of the weather for what it was. 

The promise of a fresh start. 

“But I'm your dork, princeling.”

And a natural omen for good luck in the year ahead.


End file.
